


Overpriced Cappuccinos

by HariSlate



Series: Raffles Week [5]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Pre-Relationship, raffles week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:52:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10285013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HariSlate/pseuds/HariSlate
Summary: In which Bunny is too tired of posh hipsters to hero worship RafflesWritten for Raffles Week: AUs





	

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, I cannot resist a coffee shop au

I hate my job. It’s something to do with how an hour’s wages wouldn’t cover the cost of a cup of the coffee I sell. Then the number of insufferable hipsters that came and ordered something ridiculous and expensive with no more taste than a one pound cup of coffee from a vending machine. All day, every day spent serving rich boy hipsters with nothing better to do than drink overpriced bean water.

Then there were the regulars. The kind with so little originality that you set the coffee brewing while they’re still opening the door. I should thank them, they make my life a lot easier. But they are obnoxious and they think they know you and it gets on your nerves.

“Hey.” Speak of the devil. “Bone-dry decaf almond-milk cappuccino with amaretto syrup in the espresso and caramel in the milk,  _ please _ .” And worst of all, he’s cute.

“Sure, _ coming right up _ .” With dreadful taste in coffee. He took a sip while still at the counter. Way too cute.

So Cute Coffee Guy goes and takes his coffee and sits at one of the tables, and that’s fine and what they are there for. Same thing, every day. He’s an alright tipper though. He always has a massive A2 sketchpad with him like he’s trying to be a stereotype. Today though, he brought his watercolours.

So I spent most of the day standing behind the counter, watching him paint. Because he may ridiculous but he is pretty, especially when he’s focussed like that.

Of course I was closing up that day, and of course he was staying until closing time. Every now and then he would order another coffee.

“Hey, you know there’s such a thing as sound generators,” It was an hour from closing time and he was the only other person in the shop. I was bored of the fake politeness I normally have to keep up around customers. “If you really need the whole coffee shop atmosphere to work?” he looked up, his eyes flicking from the coffee in my hand up to my face.

“Yeah, well.” He took the coffee and sipped it, then made that frantic painful sound that people make when they’ve just drunk scalding hot coffee. If he wanted something drinkable he should order something with actual milk rather than just foam. He coughed a bit, “I prefer the company here.”

I raised my eyebrows and walked away. What was that meant to mean? If he was going to be cryptic, I wouldn’t play into it. I left him to his pretentious coffee and began cleaning up behind the counter. Every time I looked up he was staring at me. His eyes were almost black and it felt awkward to make eye contact. I glared back, trying to tell him to get back to his watercolours. But still he stared.

He came back the next day. I was tempted to ask him if he had nothing better to do than sit in the cafe, but I knew he didn’t and neither did most of our other customers. I wasn’t working late that day so I didn’t have that same awkward alone time.

The third day he began coming up to the counter. He kept on smiling at me. And however nice his smile looked, I was not in the mood. It was getting late again.

“What do you want now?” If my boss was around I could get fired for this.

“Oh, just some conversation.” Up close his eyes were a really dark brown, and they kind of lit up when he smiled. Really, it was hard not to like him when he smiled. So he started chatting to me about this painting he’d been working on, and how he really didn’t want to start on the next bit because it was far too tedious and he didn’t have the patience for it. “It’s like… you have to plan it out all so meticulously, make sure every stroke is perfectly placed. I  _ can _ do it, I just don’t particularly want to.” He had this way of talking, like everybody could understand what he was saying.

The next time I had a late shift he left just before me and I had to walk in a cloud of his e-cigarette vapour. Walking next to him seemed more preferable, so I sped up and matched his pace, which was hard. It was far more obvious without the counter between us how much taller he was.

“What is the flavour of that even meant to be?”

“Bergamot.” He smiled and I elbowed him. He ruffled my hair and I called him a prat. Which he is, but a handsome one.


End file.
